Holly and Ivy
by GotaBingley
Summary: Mr. Thornton's mind is turned to his friend Mr. Hale during what should be a joyful season. But can it be joyful for those who have lost those dearest to them? And what of Mr. Hale's daughter and the burden she must bear? Is there a chance for happiness amid grief?
1. Ah, Bleak and Chill the Wintry Wind

The chill in the air had turned into a biting cold the last few weeks, and John Thornton was loathe to leave his office. But it must be done, for he never felt easy calling his overseer to him when he could just as easily seek him out. Besides, stretching his legs would be beneficial, and the warmth of the mill, so oppressive during the hot summer months, would be welcome in the December freeze.

With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and, with a short word to the clerk of his planned whereabouts, braved the cold walk from his office to the mill door. This close to midday he was fairly certain of where to find Williams, and the years spent traversing the place allowed him time to think on other matters without needing to focus on his surroundings.

Any day now he expected Watson to formally solicit him for Fanny's hand. He did not know whether to scowl or rejoice at the eventual relinquishing of responsibility for his flighty sister. Watson wasn't a bad fellow, but John almost wished she had better sense and higher ideals than to marry for a good settlement. But there was no changing her now, and with that firmly established, he found himself occasionally wishing the blessed event had already taken place. He did not look forward to being in close proximity to Fanny's tumultuous planning, especially with his foreknowledge of how she behaved at other times of celebration. At this time of year, Fanny became more and more determined each year that she would not be outdone by anyone, even the Queen.

In their past desperate time of need, there was no hint at a Christmas celebration in their meager home. No grand feast, no decorations of evergreen boughs and holly scattered throughout the house. Business did not close for the tradespeople, so there was no reason for marking the day. As time passed and he was able to work his way into a more prosperous position, that had changed. Work never ceased, but there had come a return of a good meal of roast beef, decorations of ivy, and even an increased appreciation of the few carolers that visited their door during the season.

And then it was widely exclaimed a few years prior that the Queen's family had a Christmas tree in Windsor Castle! Well, John thought, it was fine enough for the German husband of Queen Victoria, but he saw no necessity for such extravagance in his house. Fanny, on the other hand, had latched on to the idea and been voracious in her desire to be as elegant as the royal family. The previous year she had been successful in her pleadings with her mother, appealing to Mrs. Thornton's pride in their standing in the community. It should never be said that Mr. Thornton was unable to provide every luxury possible. At the time, all he could do in response was sigh. This year, however, his increased interactions with the hands at Marlborough Mills only made Fanny's pretensions seem more ridiculous.

He allowed himself a slight chuckle. Higgins would be too pleased to know of the influence he was having. As would . . .

He stopped that thought abruptly. There was no sense in allowing his mind to wander to _her_ ; it would remain with only her if he was not careful. Luckily, his musings had already taken him far enough to find Williams, where he distracted himself with the business matter that had led him to seek his overseer out in the first place.

The bell for the midday break sounded as they spoke, and the crowd of workers had all but cleared by the time he walked back toward his office. He was not ungrateful to have missed the crush of people, but some of the warmth generated by so many was already disappearing, and he locked his arms around the front of his body in preparation for the bitterness of the wind outside. He was so occupied with the cold that he almost crashed into his flustered clerk once he entered the office.

He was just starting to warm up again at his desk when he heard the door open and a familiar set of footsteps approach. He grinned to himself cheerfully, wondering what matter the blasted man had to bring to him today.

"What is the problem today, Higgins?" he called out before the owner of the footsteps had turned the corner to John's private office.

"No problem, master," the rough man spoke as he appeared. "Unless it's the wretched cold we must endure in order to speak our grievances to you."

"I'm afraid I can do nothing to alter the weather to suit you or anybody, Higgins. That must be left to a higher authority than a mere mill master."

Higgins harrumphed in response. "Then that authority, if it exists at all, must be having a good joke at our expense."

John hid a smile. He'd had enough exposure to Higgins' heretical views to know there was no good involving himself in a theological discussion. He would leave that to more learned men who knew better how to express their knowledge and faith. Besides that, it was clear that discussing the existence of a Higher Power was not the purpose of Higgins being in his office. Most likely he was looking for a good jaw and an excuse to stay out of the cold himself. With that in mind, John motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk, silently inviting Higgins to sit.

As he did so, John quickly marveled to himself. Three months before, it would have been unheard of for a hand to approach him for anything beyond a formal request related to the business of the mill. Even more unheard of would have been him allowing that hand to sit in his presence. He would not style himself an easy-going man, and he was hardly relaxing his standards of work practice, but his association with Higgins had quickly extended beyond master and man. Judgments and assumptions they had both made were being challenged, and views were being changed. What a transformation. Who knew what kind of man he would be in a year if this continued?

"How is Tom getting on?" he inquired. "He must be overwhelmed, going to school now."

Higgins nodded shortly. "He's getting on well enough. You know as well as me that he flies through those books faster than you can lend 'em. Now he's got a real reason to read, and he won't stop clapping on about 'em. I don't know if I should thank or curse you for helping him get set up in that school."

John smiled in response. "By all means, thank me, if you can't make your mind up about it. I enjoyed my education, however curtailed it was. I would not have that opportunity denied to any boy if it is within my power."

"You'd best be careful with that kind of talk around the other hands; they may overcome their pride and come clemmin' to you for their own little ones. If I can do such a thing, they could."

Knowing what credit Higgins had with the other hands, John had to admit that such a thing was more than possible. But it was too soon to suggest a general scheme for educating the children; he had yet to broach his idea with Higgins about a scheme for providing a meal at wholesale price to the workers. He needed to think on how to approach the suggestion without it smacking of charity. Another question for another time.

"Well, I am glad to hear he is thriving on his schooling."

"You're not the only one to be glad of it, master. Others take an interest in them children."

"Others?"

"The old parson and his daughter."

It took a great deal of self-control for John to keep his face under regulation. Although Margaret Hale had been instrumental to their working together, he and Higgins hardly ever discussed her or her father. Perhaps Higgins had taken his cue from John, for both knew perfectly well that Higgins occasionally called on the Crampton house. For his part, John had no desire to dwell overmuch on Miss Hale, and he could hardly think of Mr. Hale without a twinge of guilt. He barely visited his old friend and tutor any more.

"How is Mr. Hale?" He was afraid of his voice cracking and betraying his feelings as he spoke.

Higgins gave him a quick, strange glance, but replied, "Low, I'm afraid. Very low. He might remember he's got a daughter to love, and a rare one she is, too, but he'll not recover from his wife's death, if you ask me. He's suffering too much of loneliness. He's got his pupils, such as they are, but he thinks he's got no one to speak of them to."

If Higgins knew that each word he spoke smote John with a painful sting, he gave no indication. He simply spoke as he saw. "I've got no cause to speak so, I know, master, and in his way he loves that young miss and shows it, but it's a bad time of year to be lonesome. You only remember those who are gone and forget those who try to make a go of life with you." Higgins himself hung his head with this final statement. He had also endured a painful loss this past year, and was far from forgetting it.

John could easily imagine the state that Mr. Hale was in, suffering for the loss of his wife. But in his own thoughts he was most aligned with Higgins. Mr. Hale had Margaret, and that should be enough to be a balm to any pain. What John would have given for such a privilege, no matter the bitter grief he endured for her sake. It had been months, and yet if she spoke one word, he would have prostrated himself at her feet. He would not drag her down to falsehood and concealment if he had the gift of her love. His painful passion for her had not abated, and he was unsure if it ever would.

"I am sorry," he replied softly, hoping that Higgins would understand all he gave sympathy for. "It is difficult to forget those you love."

"We should not be asked to," Higgins responded gruffly.

"You are right. 'Forget' was the wrong word. I would not wish to forget . . ." he trailed off, his mind free to focus on Margaret now that she had been mentioned.

"I suppose your father had his good points, just as you do," Higgins said, looking straight at him with a keen eye.

John started at this. He had not considered his father, although he was grateful that Higgins interpreted his words that way. He did not wish for another confidant regarding Margaret Hale. Taking a moment to realize Higgins' words, he finally gave a rueful smile. "So I have my good points, do I?"

Leaning back in the chair, Higgins half-smiled himself. "I'll not be telling you of them, master; don't think it would do you good to get puffed up. But there are one or two points in you that are like a man, and that's more than I once thought."

John shook his head in amusement. "I welcome the compliment, Higgins."

"Call it a gift, if you like, considering the season."

His smile deepened at the crusty tone that accompanied the words. Higgins didn't seem to realize it, but he was a rare man, and John was more grateful than he'd care to admit for the privilege of knowing and wondering at him. Each man confounded the other oftentimes, but there was something bracing in sharing the company of another man who valued frankness and honesty in his speech, no matter the offense he may cause.

Higgins shifted in the chair, evidently wishing to change the subject. "But as to the old parson, he's got little to keep him from thinking on his wife. Me, I've got more little ones than I ever thought to care for, and that keeps me living. He needs something or someone to liven him up a bit."

John's smile disappeared rapidly. How to speak her name without giving himself away was a constant struggle, but he must do it if Higgins insisted on speaking of her father. "Miss Hale, I suppose, tries her best."

"Aye, she does, master. She does. But she's always in the house; he needs some variety." Again he fixed John with a shrewd eye. "And she shouldn't have to bear the weight so alone. She's been called on too much already since they've come here. Even she might break, strong as she is."

With no one to bear her up! The forlorn thought broke into John's mind and heart with a painful stab. Where were those who would bear Margaret's burdens? Where was the man from that night at the station? Higgins was right; even an Amazon such as Margaret could collapse under the sorrow she had borne in Milton. But what could he do? He had no right to do anything for her, much as he longed for the chance.

A slight movement by the window brought John back out of his thoughts, and he had to mentally shake himself. This had not been at all the kind of conversation he had expected when Higgins stepped inside, and he had to get back to his work. He could not dwell on such distressing images.

When he sat up a little straighter in his chair, Higgins seemed to respond in kind. Perhaps he had not meant for the turn in their conversation and was grateful for an escape, as well.

"Well, master, I'll be getting back on." He stood quickly, and with a nod was soon gone.

There was much to attend to in his duties, and John threw himself back into his work with as much energy as he could, both for the sake of his business and to forget the stinging guilt and sympathy aroused by his conversation. And it could not be said he didn't do well or neglected his work, but as to forgetting . . . that was a different story entirely. The Hales had been brought to the forefront of his mind today, and they would not leave.

John worked tirelessly until long after the bells had sounded to send the workers to their homes, and when he finally did allow himself to stop, he pushed his chair back from the desk, exhausted with his efforts on both counts. Any who would have seen him could not have guessed at the agony of his indecision, wishing he could offer assistance somehow to the Hales and yet being afraid to see _her_. She had scoffed at his love, and had turned away when he begged for an answer to her behavior. She could not wish him in her home, much as she despised him. But for her to be alone . . . for his friend, Mr. Hale . . .

With quick resolution, he leaned back over his desk and wrote a brief note. He knew what he must do, and he would do it, no matter how painful. He sealed the note, and left it on his clerk's desk to be attended to in the morning. And now to prepare himself, to steel himself for her presence, for he would need as much time as possible to bolster himself.

* * *

Two days later, he knocked at the old familiar door to the house in Crampton.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's been a long while since I've written anything, although plot bunnies are always coming into my head. But this one I decided to actually kind of follow through with. It'll be pretty short, just two or three (at _most_ four) chapters; I just wanted to write something nice for Christmas. It is thanks to the Victorians that we in the Western world have the Christmas traditions we do, but _North and South_ , although published a good 10 years after Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ , still takes place pretty early in the Victorian era, and there wasn't nearly the kind of pomp we give it now. So it totally makes sense that when Gaskell wrote, there was absolutely no mention at all of the holiday, especially since it has nothing to do with her story. In terms of book chronology and when this is taking place, it's pretty much at the end of Chapter 40, titled, "Out of Tune", when Gaskell mentions briefly winter months passing. I think it's amazing that in a matter of just a couple paragraphs, _months_ pass! So most of the action of the story has taken place, and a lot of what we would term the character development has happened. Which makes it nice and easy for me. :) So I'm inserting this in there to take place at Christmas, because I think Margaret and Mr. Thornton deserve a nice holiday.


	2. Lullay, Lulla

Margaret Hale was unaccountably nervous. At least, she told herself she could not account for her nerves. In honest moments, she knew precisely what had her in such agitation. She had been so ever since her father had happily informed her of Mr. Thornton's note. It had been some time since his favorite pupil came to read with him, and he was eager to share the news. But while Margaret was glad for her father's sake, she couldn't be perfectly calm about the gentleman's visit.

She had spent the day before he would come in a bundle of worries and wondering. She knew he did not come to see her, but would her presence be offensive to him? Should she make herself available to wait on them or hide away until he was gone? In the past she had been present during his visits with her father, and he had tolerated her company without comment, but now . . . He had to think so little of her now. He knew her sin and she was sunk in his eyes. What good would it be to force her company upon him when surely he must despise her?

The timing was unfortunate, to say the least. It had been decided the week before that Dixon should take a holiday for a few days, so even she was gone and could not be a wall between Margaret and Thornton. It was easier when Dixon was there to perform the simple necessities that allowed Margaret to make herself scarce. Martha came to do housework, but she was always gone by afternoon, which was naturally when Mr. Thornton would come. By heaven! she could not avoid him if she had to answer the door!

Margaret woke too early and lay in bed, unable to dispel her anxiety. He would come today and she was no closer to a solution to spare them both awkwardness and pain. Why did he have to come? she thought angrily. It would be so much easier if he would drop the acquaintance entirely.

But her anger was brief, and she was penitent in the remembrance of her father's need. He needed his friend; she knew that well. And he was more animated in anticipation than she had seen him for months. Mr. Thornton was capable of great friendship and even tenderness, and she was grateful that he had not forgotten her father, despite all she had done to drive him away.

She might have remained in her bed the morning long, allowing her regrets to consume her, but she knew her duty, and the day was still to be gotten through.

"When do you expect Mr. Thornton, Father?" she asked Mr. Hale as they sat to breakfast. She hoped that she sounded nonchalant in her inquiry.

"I told him to come after my reading with the Smithers lad. I do hope that his interest in the Greeks has not waned."

"I'm sure Mr. Thornton is as interested in Homer as ever he was," she replied, picking up her cup.

"Quite, quite. I must confess I'm afraid of receiving another note telling me he cannot come. I would so like to see him."

Margaret did not answer as she sipped her tea. Her own hopes were so confused that she didn't know if her fear of seeing him outweighed the fear that he would not come. What was more, she did not know who would be more disappointed if he didn't keep his appointment, her or her father.

"I wonder how that young Boucher boy is doing now that he's settled into school," her father spoke.

Margaret smiled. "I'm sure young Thomas is doing very well, Father. Remember that Nicholas told us how eager he was to begin a few weeks ago. He's a bright lad and should do well."

"Most likely. Perhaps we should pay them a visit one of these days, Margaret? To see how he's getting on?"

Margaret was pleased to hear her father express such an idea. For him to venture out of his own home was a novelty, but one that would certainly do him good. "I believe that can be managed, Father."

"And perhaps you might persuade Dixon to make those Christmas biscuits for us to take?" he suggested with a smile.

Astonishing! she thought. There was even a twinkle in his eye! "Perhaps," she agreed.

He nodded and went back to his meal, unaware of the happiness his daughter felt at his unexpected cheer. It had been so long since he was at least _willing_ to be diverted. She had a good idea of why. Oh, how she hoped he would come and not dash her father's hopes.

Mr. Hale's suggestion of the Christmas biscuits was taken to heart, and Margaret soon decided it was an answer to her problem. She would play Peggy the cook this afternoon and make them herself. That would keep her out of the way when Mr. Thornton arrived. Her father would have to answer the door, which he never did, but his enthusiasm for his guest would be enough to persuade him to perform such an unheard-of task. Thus she would be spared her embarrassment and Mr. Thornton his displeasure at their seeing each other.

So it was that during her father's lesson with young Smithers, Margaret ensconced herself in the kitchen, determined to stay there and not listen for the bell. She was not afraid of the task of making the biscuits. Countless winters she had helped Dixon prepare them as part of the baskets they took to the parishioners in Helstone. One year that she was in London for Christmas, she had even scandalized Aunt Shaw by condescending to set foot in the kitchen and make them there. She had been unsure this year if she should make the attempt, as doubtless the association of such a tradition with her mother could possibly hurt her father. But his proposition quelled her fears, and she felt almost cheery as she set to. If only she could completely forget that Mr. Thornton was coming.

Determined to distract herself, she began humming a Christmas air, hoping that music would drown out the ring of the bell she knew she was half-listening for.

* * *

He had arrived at least twenty minutes early. Tense and uneasy, he had walked quickly without a second thought for the cold. And now he stood at her door ludicrously early. But he refused to stand about in a stupor on the doorstep, so he knocked firmly and held his breath in trepidation.

What was his surprise when Mr. Hale himself opened the door!

"Hello, John," the older gentleman said. "Please, come in, come in. There is quite a chill in the air."

As he stepped inside, he took note of his old friend's appearance. Although wearing a pleasant smile, it was clear that more lines of weariness and sorrow were present in his face, and his hair was far more gray. The hand that wrung his trembled slightly, and he wondered that a man could grow so feeble so quickly. Had it been so long since they had seen each other?

"You're earlier than I expected, John. I'm still with a pupil, and he will insist on his full time. No spendthrifts in that family," he joked.

"Yes, I apologize for the inconvenience," John finally spoke. "I walked much faster than is my usual wont."

"I can't blame you there, John. The cold! Well, if you'll go up to the drawing room to wait, that will be suitable. I made sure to have lessons in the study this afternoon, for as you see I had to open the door to you. We sent Dixon off for a short holiday and are fending for ourselves as best we can."

"You are without any help?" he responded in concern.

"No, no," Mr. Hale replied with a wave of his hand. "Martha comes in the mornings, but we hardly need her all day under usual circumstances. But I must get back," he said hurriedly, turning back to the study door. "You go on up, John, you'll be quite alone, but a little solitude never hurt anyone. And I'll see you as soon as I am able." He gave John one last smile and disappeared through the door.

John hoped that his relief had not shown when Mr. Hale said he would be alone in the drawing room, but he could not deny that a pang of disappointment went through him. So she was determined to keep out of sight, then. Perhaps that was for the best. It had been so long since he had last seen her, he might not be able to control himself with even one glance.

He turned first to the stairs when he heard it. A voice so faint that if he had not stood there in silence for a moment he would have missed it entirely. Someone was singing, and with both servants gone, there was only one possible owner of that voice. He told himself to continue upstairs, but the opportunity was irresistible. He must see her, even if only for a moment. He walked slowly and silently toward the sound as though enchanted, and as he came nearer he recognized the melody of the song she sang. The door was before him now, slightly ajar, and he now hesitated, unsure if he dared push it open. But although he could not see her, he could hear her.

" _O sisters, too, how may we do,_  
 _For to preserve this day;_  
 _This poor Youngling for whom we sing,_  
 _By, by, lully, lullay_."

Even consumed by his great love, he knew she did not have a grand voice, but it was still a generally pleasing sound, and with such a haunting melody, how could he not be captivated by her? She continued, and as she did, he chanced pushing the door open, and mercifully it was quiet. With her back turned to him, she had no idea that he was there.

" _Herod the King, in his raging,_  
 _Charged he hath this day;_  
 _His men of might, in his own sight,_  
 _All children young, to slay_."

It was evident she had been occupied with some task, but although there was still a mound of dough in front of her, she merely stood with her fingers idling at the rolling pin sitting on the table, lost in the sorrowful story of the song she sang.

" _Then woe is me, poor Child, for Thee,_  
 _And ever mourn and say;_  
 _For thy parting, nor say nor sing,_  
 _By, by, lully, lullay_."

Her voice drifted off, and he heard her breathe a sigh as she straightened and picked up the rolling pin with one hand. But the other she brought to her face, and he realized as she brushed it quickly across her eyes, that she had been in tears. At once, he felt like a terrible intruder, and he wished to depart as silently as he had come. He began to move away.

But although he made no sound, she was no longer solely occupied with the song she had sung and was more aware of a movement at the corner of her eye. She whirled around, rolling pin in hand, almost ready to strike if need be. She gasped as she took in the sight of him, and for a moment their eyes were locked on each other. But her brief terror gave way quickly to total embarrassment and she broke away from his gaze. Now neither one knew where to look.

"Forgive me," he said awkwardly. "I did not intend to frighten you."

He spoke so low and gently that she was almost more taken aback than she had been moments before. "I . . . That is, you . . ." she winced at her stammering. "You need not apologize. I was only startled, and it is past."

Another awkward silence fell, and she cast about for something to say. "I suppose I should not have been singing. I am sorry if I disturbed you."

"No!" he replied quickly, finally stepping into the kitchen. She seemed ready to retreat at his movement, though, and he halted. "No," he repeated in a quieter tone. "You did not disturb me. I arrived early and heard you. I should not have imposed."

She glanced at the nearby clock and marked the time, also realizing that her throat had gone dry. She swallowed silently and turned back to him, forcing a slight smile into her eyes. "We need not spend all our time apologizing to each other, Mr. Thornton. It would be most awkward."

If it were even possible for the situation to become more so. But he nodded in agreement and searched his mind for a change of subject. It would be cowardly to flee now.

She surprised him, however, by speaking again. "My father was most pleased to receive your note the other day. He was happy at the prospect of seeing you again."

"And I him. I have missed our discussions." Unspoken was the question of why he had stopped coming regularly.

"Yes. He has, as well. I have not seen him so cheerful in quite some time, so I must thank you for your kindness in coming to see him."

"It is not kindness," he replied quickly. Her brow furrowed in confusion at this, and he hurried to explain himself. "That is, I do not see it as merely duty to visit with Mr. Hale, but a friend should make himself available, no matter how occupied with other matters. I mean to say . . . It is not a special kindness for me to come, so you should not thank me for it. It is what any friend should do, and I am sorry that I have neglected him. I should have come long before today."

"I see." She bowed her head as she spoke. "I do not doubt that you are kept busy by the mill, however. My father has been disappointed in the lack of your company, but he has not blamed you. He knows you are a friend to him." She looked up to see his piercing eyes fixed on her. She had grown unused to the sensation and felt herself grow heated.

"Perhaps," he said softly. "But I can be a better one in future."

Another silence fell, but the prevailing feeling was one of expectancy. Margaret felt her breath catch in her chest, and she had trouble convincing herself to break away from his gaze again. But she knew she must, or who knew what kind of impropriety she might throw herself into? She turned back to the table, wondering if she had left the dough too long. "In any case, we still hear of your doings, so Father does not worry too much over you."

If she had still been looking at him, she would have seen his eyebrows lower in curiosity. He walked to the opposite side of the table so he could face her. "From whom do you receive your information?"

"From Nicholas Higgins. We understand that you have taken an interest in the family."

He allowed himself a small smile. Of course it was Higgins. "I am . . . intrigued by the family, you might say. By Higgins especially, I think."

Margaret smiled in response. "He thinks much the same of you as you must of him."

John cocked his head. "What does he say about me?"

For a moment, Margaret looked like a deer caught, her expression a little alarmed. But she quickly relaxed. "Nothing at all scandalous. You needn't be afraid of that. He is perfectly able to grant that you are not the man he first took you for and that you confound him."

He chuckled. "He confounds me, as well, I will admit."

"He rather suspects that he does," she said with a smile. "He is learning a great deal, and is very surprised by the interest you take in the children."

He sobered slightly. "I suppose I take an interest when the man has taken on the family of another with whom he ended badly. I wonder what makes a man do such a thing, what kind of pride spurs him on to such an enormous task. My curiosity took me to his home, and the confounding happened as a natural result."

She took up the rolling pin once more and began tending to the dough, which fortunately could still be salvaged despite her neglect. "It is rare that we get an opportunity to correct our mistaken judgments and see past our first impressions of others." Such a thought headed into dangerous territory; who could say how he would construe her words? She rushed to speak. "I am glad that you and Nicholas are doing so."

He certainly had his views about what she had said about first impressions, but thought it was wise to respond only to her words regarding Higgins. "Don't mistake me, Miss Hale. We do not always get on together; we differ too greatly on many opinions."

She glanced up briefly. "But you have come to respect one another despite those differences, have you not?"

Taken aback, he was forced to agree. "I suppose so."

"You and he are a great deal alike."

John had no ready reply to make. Of course she was right, but although much had changed, it was still strange to him to be lumped with someone who had once so vehemently opposed him. Unwilling to relinquish her company now he had seen her and deciding a change of subject was in order, he gestured to her work. "It is surprising to see you at work in the kitchen. You must fend for yourselves with your servant gone?"

She flushed even as she smiled. "Even if Dixon were here, I would still wish to help with this."

"What is 'this'?"

"They are some biscuits that we have made each Christmas season. _Only_ at Christmas. It was always a great pleasure to make and deliver them to our neighbors each year in Helstone. It was the one winter visit that I never felt the cold."

"I see." A vision appeared before him of Margaret with rosy cheeks, snow falling about her with a basket on one arm and a laugh on her lips. It was an innocent image, but one that took his breath away. He pushed it away from him to focus on the Margaret that stood before him, flour smudging her apron, a few hairs out of place, but no less lovely. Why did he torture himself by staying? Because she was speaking to him openly in a friendly way, he immediately answered himself.

"Even Mother would assist, although perhaps not with the enthusiasm we did," Margaret smiled to herself at the memory. Young as she had been before Frederick left for sea, it was a memory she had of all her family together, and she cherished it. "She would hand one to Father after they were finished and tell him that was the one _she_ had made especially for him. 'Even a Beresford could take some pride in kitchenwork at that time of year.'"

Her smile was tinged with a hint of sadness now as she became immersed in remembrance. And again he stood mesmerized by her, longing to reach out a hand and comfort her. But not for the world would he stop her, even if he was a little puzzled at her speaking of Dixon being enthusiastic along with her. He had not thought it possible for that woman to be anything but silent and disapproving.

"Everything seemed a little brighter during those seasons," she continued. "The songs were louder, the lights glowed, and the frost didn't seem so oppressive. We would dance around the parlor and Mother didn't scold us as at other times. Christmas just made everything a little different, a little happier, a little more charitable." She realized she was rambling and shook herself, not daring to look at him for fear that he would deride her for her foolishness. She gestured to the table to steer back her words. "And there were the biscuits. I remember the year before he left, Fred said that it wouldn't be Christmas without them."

With a smile she returned to her task, but was arrested by the question he now asked. "Who was Fred?"

It was a simple question, and he had asked it honestly and with simple curiosity. This was a name he had never heard before. He did not expect her to respond with a look of abject terror, her eyes wide, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, too late to take back the words she had spoken. But this reaction not only elevated his curiosity, it aroused in him a strong sense of alarm. It was clear she had innocently betrayed some secret and he was too eager for intelligence to let it pass.

"Who was he?" he asked again, his tone lower and more searching. She could not hide the shiver that went through her body as his eyes bored into hers, but she did not answer, only shaking her head.

This only served to incite him to move around the table and step in close to her. She backed up toward the table, and both her hands now gripped the side to brace her. What had she done? What could she tell him now he had seen her fear?

Once more he asked, "Who was Fred?"


	3. God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen

The silence between them was harrowing. Margaret secretly feared that she might faint from the intensity of the air around her. Though he was not uncomfortably close, he was still standing nearer to her than he had since the day of the riot. She did not know at all what to do or how to behave, and she wished herself to two minutes previous. Her mistake of mentioning Frederick's name had not occurred then.

"Will you not answer me?" he asked, his voice soft and his eyes imploring.

She took a breath and held it there. She must speak, but what to say? "I cannot." Her eyes dropped to the floor in shame.

She heard him huff and he turned away, drawing her attention upwards once more. He began pacing the floor in front of her, confusion and frustration clear upon his brow. With another sigh, he stopped and faced her. "Why?"

Her breast swelled with sorrow. Heaven alone knew why, but she had begun to hate keeping this secret from him, no matter how much time had passed. And his lone question was such a mix of anger, sadness, and weariness that her pity and shame were heightened to a painful degree. But she could not answer.

"Am I so untrustworthy?" he continued, still speaking softly but anger more evident in his countenance. "Have I done nothing to prove that I am worthy of your confidence?"

Again, she could not hold his gaze. "You know you have," she replied.

This seemed to spur on his anger. "And yet you do not confide in me." His tone turned sarcastic. "You say you cannot." How he must despise her! "You _can_ do anything, but you will not have faith in my discretion, even after everything I have done to protect you. Did you never wonder why your name was not on the lips of every person in Milton after the riot? Or how you were prevented from having to perjure yourself and risk your reputation?"

She met his eyes now, her shame now tinged with some indignation at his accusations. "I never had to wonder about such things; I knew you were responsible. You do not know or allow me to show gratitude for it. Do you think I am incapable of feeling anything, even respect, for you?"

He palpably bristled. "If you truly respected me, you would be truthful."

"And betray someone else's trust in me simply so I can prove my trust in you?"

He was quiet, and she immediately regretted her words. Of course she was right to some degree, but she also knew he had reason to doubt her regard for him. He had no way of knowing that she had come to respect him, to think well of him, to . . . she still did not know the word to put to that wild, strange feeling he inspired in her. What she was certain of was her wish that she _could_ be honest with him. And he surely couldn't believe that.

His response was without anger or rancor, but it still struck her deeply. "You are right, of course. My own claims are nothing."

"I never said that," she replied quickly.

"You did not have to," he said with a shake of his head. Would she ever forget the pain in his eyes? "But I suppose I must yield before you. I must stand aside and watch as you betray your character on behalf of another. You may think I know nothing about you, but I know this: you were once never afraid to speak the truth to anyone, and then you were persuaded to go against yourself."

She had never felt her shame so acutely as now. He did not accuse her with his words, but his disappointment was indisputable, and she hated to think she had failed him. He did know her character, she who had so grossly misjudged him.

"And it is all the more bitter to me because I never would have asked you, whom I love, to betray your principles and honor for me."

Her eyes, so close to bowing down before him again, now flew wide open. Had he really said what he did? "You . . . you love me still?"

He did not seem a bit perturbed by his confession, and only stood a little taller as he answered simply. "Yes."

Shocked and baffled, she asked, "How? How can you -"

He would not allow her to finish. "It is nothing; my feelings on the matter are immaterial, for I know well what your feelings are."

She felt strongly compelled to speak against this. "No," she said eagerly. "You know only what my feelings once were, not what they are now."

Did she see a flicker of hope in him? If she did, it was too brief, and he shook his head and sighed. "Perhaps you do think differently of me, however difficult it is for me to believe. But I am certain . . . I could never believe you would ever return my feelings, especially after that night at the station."

"Please understand, it is not -"

"I have the understanding of my own senses, Miss Hale," he interrupted again. "You know I have. And I have the proof of your feelings, for what you would stoop to in order to protect your lover."

He turned away from her as he spoke, and Margaret was overcome by an impatient longing to express and confess everything. His mistaken belief in a supposed lover and his utterance of the word itself was too much and Margaret cast aside all caution in response.

"He is not my lover! I have no lover." He stopped his movement to the door and cast a glance behind him, but he did not turn back. "The man you saw could never _be_ my lover."

"And why is that?" Now he turned around.

It was not yet too late to regret her impetuous choice, but she pushed on, unable to feel contrition for what she was about to say. "Because he is my brother. He is my brother, Frederick."

How was he to respond to this revelation? He was awestruck and smitten mute. For her part, her courage failed her after blurting out the truth, and she said nothing further. She dreaded what he might say, but far worse was this terrible silence in which he just stared, dumbfounded.

The sound of a door opening and footsteps down the hall roused them both, and he felt it was time for him to be gone. With a hurried and quiet "Excuse me," he fled out the door, leaving both of them to their very confused thoughts.

* * *

There was no hope for the biscuits now. Margaret's neglect was complete; she was too consumed by regret, frustration, and uncertainty. None of this was directed, however, at the man who had just left her alone. No, she directed all of her unforgiving thoughts at herself. Why, she berated herself, had she let Frederick's name slip through the cracks? And once she had, why had she reacted the way she did? If she had not done so with such dramatics, she might have been able to pass off some story about who the so-called Fred was that she casually mentioned.

But no, she checked herself. That would have been another falsehood, and Mr. Thornton was right. She had betrayed her own principles once to lie, and she would not do so again. So there was nothing to be done for it _but_ to tell him who Fred was. What use was it, though? It did not change what she had done, even if she had explained everything about Fred's situation, and she had not uttered a word. Did he even believe her? Would he ever pursue this story with her again? Now she had said it, she fervently wished he would return and allow her to expand upon Fred's identity and her actions regarding him. Then perhaps she could restore some of his previous opinion of her.

Once more, she paused. According to him, his previous opinion was still unchanged. He _had_ said it, hadn't he, that he still loved her? She had not imagined it. That knowledge caused a swelling in her breast that she could not explain, but it was tamped down immediately by his disappointment in her. He might still love her, but he would never bow down to offer himself again to a woman who had spurned him so callously. And he had also professed his belief in her indifference, that he would never believe that she could . . .

Like a lightning bolt, the word came to her mind that her heart had been clamoring for so long. With a gasp, she sprang to the window, a need for air outweighing the bite of cold outside. How long had she been denying herself? How long had her feelings mirrored his? Joy at this inner discovery rose up within her, to know what it was she felt, what she longed for. She could have shouted aloud, and held her hands over her mouth to keep quiet.

Notwithstanding this painful happiness, soon tears smarted behind her eyes. She had no hope, however much she wished for it. Even his enduring love was most likely not enough to overcome all that stood between them. How long had he continued to love her, after all, and yet remained away? It was too late, and she could only chuckle bitterly through her tears at the perversity of life. She had learned to love this man, somehow, but only when there was no chance at all for them.

His mind was not so desperately engaged, though it was galloping in circles as he contemplated what she had said. A brother? Why wouldn't Mr. Hale have told him he had a son? It was too bewildering, and yet he had seen the truth in her eyes during those quiet moments after the words burst out of her. But if that were so, if that man at the station was her brother, what had kept her from telling him all those months ago?

Mr. Hale had been so pleased to see him that he had hardly needed to exercise his wits to explain why he had not gone upstairs. Mr. Hale had also heard snatches of his daughter's singing and, having little reason to know how badly things stood between Thornton and Margaret, did not think it so strange that John had gone to investigate. He was unusually effusive in his speech, and John did not have to do much for some time besides think and wonder. Could he somehow bring up this Frederick to Mr. Hale without causing pain?

At long last, Mr. Hale noticed that his friend seemed preoccupied, and asked, "Is anything the matter, John?"

John glanced up quickly, his stupor giving way to a realization that he had been caught. "I apologize," he said a mite sheepishly. "I was lost in my own thoughts."

"I was able to ascertain as much," Mr. Hale replied with an indulgent smile. "Anything I can assist you with?"

Of course, John thought. But would he offend him in asking? Deciding that his desire for information was more important, he hesitantly spoke. "I was curious. Miss Hale was telling me about past Christmases in Helstone, and she mentioned someone named Fred." Mr. Hale's sudden slight pallor at the mere mention of the name was enough to forestall any other part of his conversation with Margaret. Privately he mused that this was likely for the best. "I merely wondered who he was."

Mr. Hale's regular color returned rather quickly as he asked curiously, "You do not know about Frederick? I thought Bell would have informed you of him when he told you about our family when we first began corresponding."

So Mr. Hale had simply assumed he had known! "No, should he have told me?"

Mr. Hale raised his hands in uncertainty. "I suppose not. He perhaps did not even think of it; it has been so long since we spoke of Frederick with any regularity."

John sat silently, still waiting for confirmation of Frederick's identity.

"If he did think of it, he must have thought it better for me to judge if you were trustworthy enough to be told. Which of course you are, John," he interjected quickly. "Of course you are, but I am grown so used to not speaking of him that it simply slipped my mind. The fact is, Margaret is not my only child. I have a son. That is Frederick."

Affecting more surprise than he felt, John replied, "A son? Why do you not speak of him?"

In the next several minutes, John learned a great deal about Frederick Hale and the secrecy surrounding him. Mr. Hale was even gracious enough to confess to Frederick's presence in Milton at his wife's death. And as he spoke, John began to feel uncomfortably ashamed. So Margaret was only protecting her brother. The easiness of Mr. Hale's manner caused John to suspect that he was unaware of the incident at the station, and John marveled at her ability to shield her family while taking on all the burden herself. And what had he done while she was suffering from not only her mother's death, but also preserving a brother from detection and court-martial? He had suspected and treated her with contempt. He wished to excuse some of his behavior, but all he could think was how this was a fresh proof of his unworthiness.

He did an admirable job of participating in conversation with Mr. Hale, and he was truly regretful when he noted that it was time to depart. He would have to return as soon as possible. They shook hands cordially, and he descended the stairs alone, leaving Mr. Hale to his books.

At the bottom of the stairs, John paused. At no point in the hour he had been with Mr. Hale had Margaret passed by. Did that mean she was still in the kitchen? Or had she left? But then, there had been no sound of the door. Taking a deep breath, he walked toward the silent kitchen, hoping he could at least make amends for his abominable behavior the last few months.

There she was, seated at the table, the dough and sundry items all cleared away. The chair was situated in such a way that, if she looked up, they would face one another directly. But she seemed lost in another world, and a melancholy one at that. Compassion engulfed him and he stepped forward, drawing her attention upwards. It was then he noticed the puffy redness around her eyes, and he grew ashamed at the thought that he was the cause of her tears. She stood in response to seeing him, giving him a questioning look.

There was no sense in delay. "I am sorry," he stated bluntly, but not without gentleness. "I did not know all the circumstances and . . . I am sorry."

She shook her head in reply. "How were you to know all the circumstances? I would not tell you what they were. I do not blame you."

"Please," he interjected, holding up a hand to stop her. "Do not try to excuse my behavior in this. I accused you and blamed you, and I am sorry for treating you thus. And after speaking with your father and hearing more of your brother's story-"

"You did not tell him about the station, did you?" she interrupted in alarm.

"No." At least there was some relief in her posture now that question was answered. "But now that I understand what drove your actions that night and following it, I see it was wrong to push you as I did when I asked for your explanation."

"Not wrong, Mr. Thornton," she spoke with another shake of her head. "Not wrong. If anyone deserved the truth, it was you. After what you did . . ." she trailed off, unable to finish for fear that he would think that her desire to confess was based only on gratitude for his actions. "And even without your help and protection, I still should have wanted to tell you."

"Be that as it may, I have reason to regret my behavior to you. I cannot honestly say that I would not have acted in the same manner had I been in your situation."

A small, disbelieving smile appeared on her lips. "You will forgive me if I disagree with you. I think you are honest to a fault. You would not willfully deceive anyone."

"That may be, but it hardly makes me a paragon of virtue. It would be a difficult decision to make, as I'm sure it was for you."

Her lips now pursed pensively. "In some ways, perhaps, it was difficult. But at the time, it was almost instinctive, and I know that I would have done the same if given the chance to go back."

"We will do a great deal to protect those we love," he murmured softly, not knowing the effect he had on her with such a statement.

"But I think that I would change one aspect of my behavior. I would have confided in you." He made as if to scoff, and she pushed ahead before he could interrupt her. "No, I know you have no reason to believe me, but it is true. When I discovered you knew my fault, that I had lied . . . it was almost more than I could bear. I nearly did confess to you that day at Nicholas's home; you were deserving of the truth and I was so unhappy with the loss of your good opinion, as I was sure I must have lost it."

She began to sound so plaintive it was challenging for him to push away any growing feelings of hope. "It was hardly a loss to you, I'm sure," he muttered, trying more to convince himself than contradict her.

"But it was," she argued, stepping around the table toward him. "You may not be a paragon, as you say, but you are a _good_ man. I am only sorry that it took me so long to acknowledge it," her voice softened and her eyes dropped to the floor. "The way I have treated you since we came to Milton . . . I am ashamed of it. And after all my airs and graces, you were the one proved to be superior. I found that I could have borne it had anybody else known my guilt, but for you to know . . ." She must stop beginning sentences she could not finish! "I never knew until that moment how much I had come to . . ." Could she say it? Could she confess what she had finally admitted to herself?

"Yes?" he prompted, more eager than he wished to be. The way she spoke could not mean what he had long dreamed of, but what if she did feel something? He held his breath in expectation.

She looked up, and for the moment demurred. "How much I had come to respect you and rely on your good opinion," she finally answered. "I was – I _am_ grateful for what you did; it proved the kind of man I have learned you are."

Deflated by such an inadequate answer, he spoke a trifle coldly. "I did not come here for your praise, Miss Hale. I have done wrong, and I wished to beg your pardon for it."

"I hope you will allow me to think well of you, Mr. Thornton," she pressed. She had never been one to be cowed into or away from an opinion.

"By all means, but I do not ask you to speak of it, or to say more than you really believe."

"I am not exaggerating, if that's what you think. It is not gratitude or foolishness that guides my feelings; they are sincere and based on what I know. I'm not blind to your temper or your Northern pride and stubbornness. But knowing your faults does not diminish my ability to see many things to admire in you. You see clearly yourself. You must know my faults, as well, but . . ." Once more she was compelled to leave a thought incomplete, as she looked directly into his eyes, which seemed to spark with an intense light.

"Yes?" he asked again. He was too easily led into this unconquerable anticipation, relying on a glimmer of a chance that she would say what he most desired to hear.

"But you told me only an hour ago that you still loved me," she blushed brightly and averted her eyes at recounting his words. But she must fight against her embarrassed instinct and look him straight in the eye. He would never believe her, otherwise. She forced herself to face him again. "Knowing my shortcomings has not prevented that. Heaven knows I am amazed by your words; you had reason upon reason to entirely cease feeling anything for me. And yet, you say you love me still. I never could allow myself to hope for that."

Moving closer to her, he spoke feelingly and faintly. "Hope? Did you wish to hope for such a thing?" He would not relinquish her gaze now, not if the world ended at this moment.

There was a long moment of silence as she gathered up her determination. "Yes," she breathed.

"Why?" He stood before her, mere inches away. The light in his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips threatened to overtake her. Her breath was all but gone and in her struggle to regain it, her chest began rising and falling too quickly to be decent. If the bursts of breath came any faster, she was in danger of swooning.

"Is it still difficult for you to confide in me?" he murmured, a tantalizing lilt to his voice.

She still struggled to breathe; was she under some spell? "It is when I don't quite know the words to speak," she stammered out.

She cursed herself inwardly, but only for a moment, for her answer seemed to gratify him, and the smile that had been playing on the corners of his mouth came out fully. It was not a wide smile or brimming with laughter, but it was full of tenderness and unspoken pleasure. He could not find it in himself to speak and awaken himself from this dream. He was at the brink of apprehension and happiness, and any misstep could cost him dearly. He moved slowly, but still never removed his eyes from hers. There was no disapproval in her as he reached down and touched her hand with his. And as he took it fully and held it between their bodies, she seemed to emanate elation. This filled him with an ecstasy he never knew he could feel.

Still he spoke softly. "You must stop me before I misunderstand you entirely." He brought her hand closer to his lips.

"You don't misunderstand me," she whispered.

It took every ounce of self-control to not take her fully in his arms at that moment, but he was too afraid of shocking her to exert such a liberty. The warm energy between them was enough, and he pressed his lips to her hand with such an adoring reverence that she was sure that no breath was left in her. Silence, which had been an agony before, was as sweet and delicious as ambrosia. Neither wanted to shatter this moment with inelegant and mortal speech. They simply looked and beheld.

"Margaret, how did you get on?" a voice broke through from the hall. Margaret's eyes widened and John immediately backed away, just in time for Mr. Hale to enter the kitchen. "Oh, John, I thought you had left," he exclaimed in some surprise.

Speaking was certainly a difficulty, but it must be managed. "No, I . . . I had something else to speak of with Miss Hale and so stopped in," he said with a semblance of normalcy.

"Nothing too serious, I hope?" He looked from Margaret to John in confusion.

"No, just clearing up a mistake. I believe we understand each other now." He could not resist an allusion, and Margaret flushed in response.

"I see," Mr. Hale said slowly, suspiciously.

Perhaps it was time to be on his way. "But I must be going now. I have little time to spare these days. I hope to return again soon." He let his eyes linger on Margaret, who granted a small smile even her father did not miss. John felt as though he were retreating somehow, but there was nothing to be done for it. He had already received much more on this visit than he could ever have imagined. It would not do to push his luck.


	4. All is Calm, All is Bright

"Margaret, I know that we had planned to visit Nicholas today, but I am sure the cold is not good for this cough," her father told her upon her return from church.

She privately agreed with him, but was sure he hoped for a strong protest. "Are you certain, Father? I know Nicholas and the children would be so happy to see you."

He knew perfectly well she said so only for his benefit and patted her cheek fondly. "And I would be happy to see them, but -" a fit of coughing interrupted him, and he turned away from her until it passed.

Margaret was grateful he turned away; she did not want him to observe her look of concern. With the turn in the weather had come this intermittent cough, and that it had persisted for a few weeks was alarming. She hoped that the eventual return of spring would lessen its occurrence, but that was many months away. For now, she was glad it was not too severe, and she prayed it would not worsen.

When Mr. Hale turned back to her, he managed a smile. "But I do not want to detain you. I would like a quiet rest to myself, and perhaps you can visit the Higginses on your own. With Christmas this week, you should not delay your delivery."

With a small laugh, she agreed to the suggestion. Her second attempt at biscuits had been far more successful, considering no unexpected visitors interrupted her again. And if she waited until the next Sunday, the holiday would have passed. So, after a brief refreshment and seeing to her father's comfort, she went her way to Princeton, armed with a basket of Christmas offerings.

The solitude of her walk gave her time to reflect on the past few days, and the man who featured most prominently in her thoughts. They had not seen each other again, but she knew he had not forgotten her. A basket, similar to the one she carried, had been delivered to their home, with apples, oranges, and nuts galore. She thought it slightly extravagant under usual circumstances, but the note accompanying it reconciled her to its bounty. He had such a sincere and heartfelt manner of expressing his best wishes for the season that she was sure the abundance was meant also as a token of his affection. Because he could not come in person, he had to be generous in another way.

Her father was certainly inclined to think so. After his confused suspicion the other day, he had gone so far as to dare questioning her about her relationship with Mr. Thornton. Unused to such personal topics, even with his daughter, he blushed nearly as much as she had. She had not quite known what to say in reply, either. Certainly she and Mr. Thornton had a new understanding, but what that precisely was still eluded her. So Margaret told her father that she had been seeing that gentleman in a new light, and there was reason to hope that they might become better friends.

Even Mr. Hale was not entirely fooled by such evasions, but if Margaret was not to confess any more to him, he was not going to embarrass either of them further by pursuing the topic. When Bell had first mentioned the possibility of Margaret and Mr. Thornton being fond of each other, he had scoffed and then worried. Now, with some slight evidence of his own, he still worried. But then he remembered how fond of Mr. Thornton he himself was, and if Margaret was not averse to the man, he would he happy to welcome him into his family. If it came to that.

Margaret was unaware of her father's musings on the subject, and so was free to wonder and think about Mr. Thornton as she saw fit. When would she see him again? With this new understanding between them, how would they possibly act? She hardly even knew _how_ to be friendly with him; they had had so little practice at it. There had been either passionate dislike or . . . passion, she thought with a crimson blush to her cheek.

When she reached the Higginses' door, as she raised her hand to knock, she heard voices inside. This was nothing new, but there was a certain distinct rumble of one of the voices that made her heart race. It seemed she no longer needed to wonder about when she would see him next. With a certain consciousness, she knocked.

Mary opened the door, and before she had even managed a greeting, her view was arrested by the sight of him rising from the chair. It would hardly do for them to reunite in the manner they both wished to, so as she stepped in with the usual formalities, there was very little exchanged between the pair of them, but she could not miss the suppressed excitement in his eyes as he looked her way. It was all she could do to keep from blushing.

After stating her reason for coming and bringing even more gleeful noise into the house regarding her basket, the situation settled and Mr. Thornton and Nicholas returned to their previous conversation, which was a debate inspired by a book that Thomas had brought home from school. They had clearly been enjoying themselves while discussing it before her arrival, and there was no stopping them.

"I'm just pointing out, Master," Nicholas said, "this Mr. Dickens certainly seems in favor of some celebration."

"Celebration I am also in favor of, Higgins," Mr. Thornton replied. "But you might recall it is a work of fiction, and not all employers are at leisure to grant Christmas Day off."

With such clues scattered in their conversation, Margaret quickly realized what book inspired their discussion and what part in particular they debated. She allowed herself a smile, knowing by the men's tones neither was annoyed or angry. She had thought she would speak with Mary regarding some household matters when Nicholas hailed her.

"Miss Margaret, what are your thoughts? Surely you think that a working man deserves a day off to celebrate the season with his family."

Startled, she did not reply immediately, and first chanced a look Mr. Thornton's way. He looked only mutely curious, so she felt at liberty to speak.

"In principle, I do agree. One day a year to spend with your family and friends does not seem so hard in the grand scheme of things."

Nicholas threw his hands up in triumph. "There, you see, Master?"

But Mr. Thornton did not acknowledge Nicholas, and only kept his gaze on her. "You say 'in principle', Miss Hale," he spoke with a hint of challenge in his voice. "What do you mean by that?"

"Eh?" Nicholas turned back to her, confused. "What is there _to_ mean?"

"Well," she said awkwardly, "in principle it is one thing, but in practice it is another. Even in _A Christmas Carol_ , on Christmas Day there are shops that are open. Mr. Scrooge would not be able to buy a Christmas turkey for the Cratchits if they were not."

Nicholas scowled, but Mr. Thornton's eyes gleamed in pleasure. Without even saying a word, he had won a point against Nicholas. But Nicholas was not a man to be gainsaid.

"Well, of course the butchers must be open!" he exclaimed, turning back to Mr. Thornton. "But a mill is not a butcher's shop, you must admit that, Master."

"I can very easily admit it. But Miss Hale makes a cogent point that different businesses must have different standards of practice. A mill is not a butcher's shop, but it is also not a money-lender's office. Mr. Scrooge is against the idea of giving his clerk the day off, but he can also afford to do so."

"Yes, he _is_ against the idea. But he still does it, and that's _before_ he is visited by the ghosts and all."

"So are you saying that Mr. Thornton is such a good man in comparison to Mr. Scrooge at his worst that his character alone would not prevent him from giving you the holiday?" Margaret asked quietly.

There was unconcealed happiness in the look he now gave her, but Nicholas scoffed so loudly they could hardly share a glance before he drew their attention away. "Oh, don't be casting that up before me, Miss! The point I'm making is that a man's character has nothing to do with it. And a working man deserves the day."

Now Mr. Thornton sobered. "I do not disagree with you, Higgins. If I could afford it, I would gladly give my workers Christmas Day to be with their families. My fellow masters would think I had gone mad, but I would do it if I could. But with things as they are, it is impossible."

Nicholas smirked, but he had always known how the debate would end. After all, the master's word was final. What was more, he actually respected this master and could believe that he meant what he said.

Margaret did not want to leave things be on such a somber note. "I am glad to see you taking an interest in Thomas's schoolwork. I thought you were against books for yourself."

"I never said no such thing," he muttered, but not unkindly. "And if the lad brings home something a mite interesting, I'll not say no to it. Some books as for explaining business just weren't meant for my head."

"You might be surprised if you really gave them a chance, Higgins," John said sincerely.

Nicholas only inclined his head in sarcasm. "Well, begging your pardon, sir, but one master tried to get those books at me once. I'm not in a hurry to get back to them. But something interesting, like that book Thomas told me about, that's something different."

"There is one part of it that I particularly like," Margaret said, her memory of the passage adding a sweet serenity to her voice. "When Tiny Tim says that he hopes the people see him in church, hoping that it puts them in mind 'upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.'"

John smiled fondly at her, but Nicholas grumbled. "You would latch on to that idea, wouldn't you, Miss?"

Before he could reprimand Nicholas for replying in such a fashion, Margaret spoke frankly. "Yes, I would, Nicholas. It gives me happiness to think that a boy who has so much to bear still remembers the love and mercy of His Lord."

Nicholas still grumbled, but under his breath.

"Bessy certainly believed in that love, Nicholas. It gave her such comfort in her life, as full of hardship as it was."

"It was," he vehemently repeated, but still soft.

"She would want you to believe in that love yourself, especially at this time of year," Margaret said gently.

"Much good that love and mercy does," he muttered.

Now John felt stirred to speech himself. "But it is not only His mercy that is manifest in those miracles, Higgins, but His justice. When he healed the beggars and blind men, he was making right what once was wrong."

Margaret started, taken aback at the fervor in his voice. She had never thought about Mr. Thornton's faith, and to hear him speak so was as enlightening as it was unexpected.

"In the end, that is what He will do, to make all wrongs right. His justice demands that, not only His mercy. Does that idea not interest you, Higgins?"

Still Nicholas made no audible reply, and John looked over to Margaret with a resigned air. It was time for the subject to change. She took the hint and began speaking about her father and his desire to visit the family when he was feeling better, and from there they were able to navigate the conversation into safer and more pleasant waters.

After an hour had passed, Margaret knew she must leave. She had some time before it fell dark, but she did not wish to worry her father by lingering too long. With an apology and promise to return, she rose. And with that, her secret hope was fulfilled, for he spoke his need to leave, as well, and offered to accompany her home. She kept her smile small, not wanting to betray her feelings to the entire room, but afraid at the same time they could not be concealed. Nicholas, at least, sharp as he was, gave no indication that he knew what they were about.

But John had one more surprise in store before they left. As Mary opened the door for them, he turned back to Nicholas and with an appraising look, said, "What would you say to a half-day for Christmas, Higgins? I can offer no more."

At first Nicholas looked dumbfounded, but a smile stole over his face as he shook his master's hand, saying it would do well enough to begin with.

"But don't think we're done, sir. I'll still have your ear next year," he promised gruffly. John laughed in response, and Margaret smiled broadly.

The moment they stepped out the door, John gently but decidedly took her arm and tucked it into his. Taken aback by the gesture, she gasped slightly and looked up at him in surprise. He betrayed very little expression, but what smile there was hinted at his pleasure and pride at being able to do such a thing with very little fear of being denied. She could not resist a smile herself as she blushed. Beyond that, she made no acknowledgement of their close proximity.

But she could not walk long in silence. "I trust you are pleased with Tom's progress," she said.

"Of course. And I'm glad he is not wasting his opportunity. Although if he keeps bringing home books and ideas that make my employees wish for days off of work, I may change my mind." He said this with a sly smile that made it clear he was not truly annoyed with the ideas Nicholas put forward.

"Well, I think you rather surprised Nicholas just now with the half-day concession."

"That was my intention. I enjoy catching him off-guard;he does it to me so often."

She breathed a small laugh. "I must admit you surprised me, as well."

"That was also an appealing benefit," he answered, inclining his head toward her.

"Well, not just the time off," she explained. "But rather what you said when we discussed religion so briefly."

"With Higgins," he replied, "theology discussions are generally brief."

"So then you have talked religion with him before?" she asked in amazement.

"Not often," he said with a shake of his head. "Just the occasional departure from another topic. Why would this surprise you?" he asked curiously.

She hesitated before answering, hoping she did not offend him. "I suppose I assumed you were rather of Nicholas's persuasion."

Thankfully he nodded his head in understanding. "Ah. So you are surprised to discover that I do, in fact, have religious convictions."

"It is not something we have ever talked of," she admitted, looking very hard at the ground.

His reply was soft. "There are a great many things we have not talked of together. I look forward to remedying that."

She looked up to see sincerity in his piercing eyes. "I do, as well."

He smiled in relief, and they continued walking, though once more both were unsure of what to speak of. Too long had they been in the habit of being silent with one another. But this gave Margaret leave to notice some curious glances of the people they passed as they left the Princeton district and into a more genteel part of town. It was only after the third woman she saw giving her a strange look that she realized what could be going through their minds. Was that Mr. Thornton, the eminent mill master, walking with the nameless parson's daughter? Whatever were they doing walking together in such a familiar way? The thought both amused and daunted her.

Something of her uncertainty must have shown through in her manner, for the ever-attentive gentleman beside her asked, "Is something the matter?"

She forced a light tone into her voice. "I was just thinking that we are likely to be among the tittle-tattle of Milton now. I have observed some faces looking quite curiously at us."

"Does this distress you?" he asked in some concern.

She looked at him, hoping to alleviate any insecurity. After all, she had no qualms about him personally. "In a way. I am not accustomed to being gossiped about. It was difficult enough to wonder what people might say or know about me when that horrible business with Frederick and Leonards occurred. But then," she recollected, "you were there to be my protector."

He said nothing to this, but only nodded.

"You must be used to public scrutiny," she ventured.

"I am," he stated simply. "And unfortunately I have had to endure the sound of my name coupled with any number of young ladies these five years at least, ever since the mill became prominent. But because there was never an iota of truth to any of those speculations I heeded them none too closely. It is only when Fanny repeats the latest tales ceaselessly that I am perturbed."

"And now?"

He did not slow his pace, but was sure to look directly at her. "I am still unmoved." She found some comfort in his confidence, and he continued in a lower voice so as not to be heard by close passersby. "You know my feelings." A pleasant shiver ran through her at this. "Let them speculate; I am content. It is simply the more astonishing that now the gossip will be based in truth. I am sorry if you will be adversely affected by it, though."

"No," she replied quickly. "I have done nothing to be ashamed of. At least . . ." she corrected herself. "Nothing that you do not already know, and that is enough for me. If my name being linked with yours is a matter for others, so be it. I will manage."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not appear to be suspicious or annoyed. Rather, he looked pensive, and that made her curious. What must he think of her silliness? She should simply follow his example and remain unmoved by what people might say. But what he said next surprised her.

"We need not make ourselves targets, however. I know a more private way to your home; fewer people will observe us. Will you permit me to take you along that way?"

She took a moment to gather her wits. Would they be entirely alone? She longed for it, but still that niggling fear would persist. "Would not such a route add fuel to the fire?"

"Perhaps. But I find it hard to care; I would rather spend our time together as secluded as possible, with fewer people to interrupt us."

They had stopped in the middle of the pavement and she was sure they were drawing more attention to themselves, but his frank expression was enough to persuade her to look only at him. Indeed, it was hard not to stare when his low, deep voice gave her such an enticing invitation. "As you wish," she said softly, trying her utmost to not sound coy but not quite succeeding. Little did she know how much that tone appealed to him as he led her into a side street.

When they emerged from the crush of buildings, she saw a familiar path that she had traversed occasionally while taking a solitary walk. There was a park nearby to admire in finer weather, and they were quite alone. There was a set path, so it was not entirely secluded. It was possible that others would take this way, so their presence together there was not indecent or scandalous. But it did offer them more privacy, since at this time of year few would think to walk among the graying trees in the crunching snow around them.

"It may take a few minutes longer to reach your home," he broke the silence at last as they found their way up a small hill.

"Now you confess this drawback!" she replied teasingly. Had she ever teased him before? "But I shall endure it," she said with a smirk.

He smiled in response. "I admire your forbearance," he stated with some irony.

She was pleased that he would tolerate some teasing so well. It was not natural in her to flirt or tease as she had seen some girls do, and she doubted he was a man to be teased often. But it was a relief to find that he was not always austere. Although, she thought to herself, her father could never have befriended a man so completely who was always so severe. How else would she find she had misjudged him? she upbraided herself.

But now was not a time to be lost in her own thoughts. She was alone with him, and she must continue to draw him out. Unfortunately, his expression had also fallen into somberness, and she could not think of what could have made him unhappy.

"Is something amiss?" She reached across her body with her free hand to touch his arm, drawing his glance to her.

He visibly hesitated before answering. "I do not wish to anger you."

"Anger me?" she asked, startled.

"I know what it is to be the object of your scorn," he explained with some sadness. "I don't like risking it."

She knew well that he had been in the path of her passionate anger before, and she stumbled over her words as she attempted to reassure him. "If you fear speaking of something, it is not perhaps wise of you to _tell_ me you fear it. You must know I would rather hear what you are thinking."

"Would you?" he murmured, stopping in their path.

"I would," she spoke firmly. "I know once I did not, but you yourself spoke just the other day of honesty and truth. If there is something impeding our . . . association," she faltered at this word, simply not knowing what would best describe their relationship, both past and present, "I would rather know than remain ignorant and unable to correct whatever is wrong. A northern influence, I assure you," she added, hoping a little levity was appropriate.

A corner of his mouth did lift at her addition, but he shook his head in mild frustration. "I fear that it is only a matter of time before our past simply repeats itself."

"What do you mean?"

He let go of her arm and walked ahead a few paces before turning back to face her. "We seem to be getting along well at present; would you not agree?"

"Certainly," she replied. What could such a question be leading to?

"There are few times in our past . . . association . . . that such was the case."

Now she was beginning to see, and she dropped her eyes to the ground. "Which was part of the reason I was so shocked when you proposed. I could not even call you a friend, and yet you spoke of loving me." And still, after all that had been said, she blushed at the memory.

"And how did you react?" he asked in a leading way.

"Badly."

"No," he said sharply. She brought her head up quickly to see him stride back to her. He took her gloved hands in his and went on more softly. "No, I am not speaking of that time to bring you guilt. I speak only to remind you of a very decided opinion you had of me, and how much you disapproved of me. I am glad to know your opinion has changed, but what is to prevent you from disliking me again? What if, in the course of this time we are improving our knowledge of each other, you discover I _am_ truly nothing but the brute of a northern tradesman you first took me for? What if you were correct, after all?"

A tender sympathy tempted her to stroke his face with her hand, but she resisted it. It was more important he knew that she shared such insecurity. "And what if _I_ am proved to be nothing more than the proud, ignorant southern girl who refused to understand anything of life here in in Milton?" His eyes widened a little at this, mystified that she could have a similar fear. "We neither of us are blameless in our behavior," she continued, "but for my part, I am willing to brave the risk. I think I know you better than I once did; I would never wrongly judge you as heartless or cruel again."

"Nor I you of being deliberately ignorant or willfully misunderstanding."

"You see?" she triumphed, taking his arm again and pulling them along the path. "We both have overcome erroneous impressions already! How much better should we go on if we continue with the same goal in mind?"

Did she know his goal? She must. But the thought of it and how much closer he was to obtaining it was too precarious to speak just yet, and he said nothing. But he could still look down at her in wonder that she would walk along with him, that she would give him a chance to one day . . .

"Have I allayed your fear at all?" she asked, peering at him with a hopeful smile.

"Somewhat," he allowed, his mouth betraying itself with a smile of its own.

"Then I hope you see the benefit of confiding in me," she said with a proud air, but amusing for all its bravado.

"The same might be said of the reverse, Miss Hale," he teased.

Archly, she replied," I already am well-aware of how much happier I am at having confided in you, Mr. Thornton. You need not _rub it in_." She mockingly gave him a reproachful look with her eyes, and his humor deepened. There was hope yet.

They walked on in silence again, bearing as best they could with the cold air. He thought that it looked to snow again soon, and though he wished to walk with Margaret as long as possible, it would not do to keep her out as the early winter darkness descended.

"You have heard something of our Christmas traditions, Mr. Thornton. Has your family any?"

With a deep breath, he said, "I am afraid not. For a long time we did nothing to celebrate; saving was more important. And now Fanny latches on to a new fashionable idea every year that nothing has ever endured long enough in our family to be considered traditional."

Fortunately, she did not seem disappointed by this response. "Well, with this half-day you have given, perhaps you might cast your mind better on celebration and traditions you might begin. Surely a well-meaning man such as yourself can think of something."

He laughed. "You must think me more benevolent than I really am; I conceded the half-day chiefly to see how Higgins would react. Doing a good deed for my workers was only a small part of my decision," he admitted.

"But there will still be good that comes from it," she persisted. "I will have to try to influence you to better motives."

"Between you and Higgins, I will end more a philanthropist than an employer. Who knows how my business will suffer?" he asked ruefully.

"But you need not suffer alone," she stated matter-of-factly.

Without thinking, he began, "Not if -" then stopped himself. He had no business saying it so soon.

"Not if what?" she asked.

He stopped again and met her gaze head-on, and knew he could not keep silent. Her entire being was absorbed, her eyes searching, her lips parted, waiting to know what he would say. So he would say it, cursed be the consequences if she was affronted at how quickly he spoke of it. "Not if I can persuade you to like me well enough to marry me." Her eyes did widen and her shoulders lifted with an intake of breath, but her expression did not betray offense. "You spoke of a goal; surely you must know that is mine," he said imploringly.

The rapid rise and fall of her chest came again as she felt short of breath. Yes, she knew his feelings, and consequently that his wishes expressed so long ago would not have changed. But how could he speak of her only _liking_? Clearly she needed to make herself clear to him, and her nerves came rising to the occasion. "Are you in doubt that I can like you enough?" she asked softly. "Because I can. I do. I -" her voice caught at the fierce affection that shone through him. " _Like_ is not an adequate word for what I feel now," she murmured. "After the other day, surely _you_ must know _that_."

"And what word _is_ adequate?" He himself felt breathless with anticipation.

"Well . . ." She had to chuckle at the manner of this particular confession. "I think _love_ to be a very fitting word."

She was expecting something, anything in reaction to her words. Something scandalous, she half-hoped, for wouldn't he feel the same joy she did in knowing he loved her? But what she certainly didn't expect was for his gaze to leave her and look around them, glancing this way and that as if searching for something. And she didn't expect him to grasp her hand firmly in his, taking her off the path to struggle through the untouched snow.

He didn't stop until they were in a small copse of evergreen trees, on which the snow lay thickly enough that the main path behind was practically obscured from view. She was so confused by this behavior, she had to ask, rather out of breath, "What is it?"

"Are you certain?" he asked pleadingly, his eyes boring into hers. His hands gripped hers fiercely, and his entire body seemed to beg for an answer. It did not take her long to know what he meant.

"Of course," she said softly. His grip slackened and the tension in his shoulders eased. "I would not deceive you about this."

A touch of wonder lightened the intensity of his look. "You . . ." He could not finish, too choked with happiness for words.

"Yes."

Without another word, he wrapped her in his arms. Now she understood his desire for even greater seclusion. This was scandalous behavior, indeed! And it was too heavenly to feel his strength surrounding her, warming and caressing her, that she could not feel any shame. After months of separation and silence, all she wanted was to stay with him.

"Did you really not know the other day?" she asked into his chest.

She felt the rumble of his silent laugh. "It seems that I still have some skills to learn in discernment." He pulled away so he could see her face, leaving his hands on her shoulders. "I thought that you meant only that you cared for me, that I had a chance to earn your love." She ducked her face in embarrassment, but he stopped her by placing a hand under her chin. "I didn't dare believe I already had it," he whispered in amazement.

She spoke in a whisper, as well. "You do."

The hand that held her chin moved slowly to cup her cheek, and though he wore gloves, Margaret leaned into his touch with nearly as much pleasure as if his skin grazed hers. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned closer, his head bowing down to hers. She did not need the guide of his hand to tilt her face upwards. She had barely closed her eyes when his lips brushed against hers. For a few precious moments, nobody else existed in the world, and there was only him and his tender touch.

At long last, they pulled apart, and she was too breathless to speak. He also was overcome, and so simply took her into his embrace again, her head nestled under his chin. She fit so well there, and he marveled and thanked God for this unexpected and incredible gift.

When he spoke, it was still in a whisper. "We should hurry; it will be dark soon."

She smiled. "I am not cold."

She lifted her head to him, and was nothing short of alluring. He kissed her again, more deeply and longer. She responded enthusiastically, and they continued there a much longer time.

But eventually she could not suppress a shiver that had nothing to do with the feelings of the moment. "Well, perhaps I am a little," she admitted.

He smiled affectionately at her and took her hand in his to lead her back to the path. Still they did not speak, but now were both filled with happiness and hope for the future. And both knew what would happen when a certain question was asked, perhaps on Christmas Day.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's all she wrote. I couldn't resist putting a little Dickens in there, both because I just watched two versions of _A Christmas Carol_ in the last week, and because of Dickens' association with Mrs. Gaskell herself. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my Christmas tale, and that you were so distracted by non-angst (or at least very brief angst) that you didn't notice how little I edited myself this time around. Thank you for reading, subscribing, reviewing, and making my holiday a little warmer with your encouragement. Merry Christmas! Or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Holidays!


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